This Charming Man
by ZiggycamefromMars
Summary: A Modern Gatsby AU. In a twist of events Jay Gatsby has asked Daisy Buchanan, an old flame, to persuade her cousin Nick Carraway to work for him. (I can't write summaries. Please give it a read, instead.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Requested by: anon. Thanks, nonnie. I hope this is going to work out well, haha!**

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In the summer of 2012 my cousin Daisy Buchanan gave me a business proposition. I was hardly inclined to call myself lucky at this opportunity; her husband, the notoriously unfaithful Tom Buchanan, was the owner of one of the largest and wealthiest companies in New York. I jumped to the conclusion that it was his company I would be working for, and was almost ready to politely decline when Daisy's sweet little voice halted me, explaining that it was for a dear friend—and not her beloved.

And that's exactly how I found myself living in an exhausted flat, with my cousin and her husband living on the other side of New York in a lavish mansion, whilst the mysterious Gatsby lived beside me on the outskirts of New York.

I'd heard rumours about him. Some claimed he lived in the shadows like Batman, and saved the lives of innocent city folk by night. But I could hardly imagine a man, said to be of almost majestic aesthetics, driving around dressed as the caped crusader. I got drunk, yes, but I've never been mad, and so I waved that rumour off with beer in hand. Now, one rumour Icould believe was his incredible past. There seemed to be enough evidence to back it up—magazine columns, newspaper articles, blog posts—so I could hardly discredit the rumour that Gatsby came from a terribly poor family, and had worked his way up through business from a simple coffee courier.

My own family, the Carraway's, have mostly always been prominent, well-to-do people in this city for numerous generations—save for my uncle Howard, of course, who was disowned after my mother and father found him doing unspeakable things to a cow one night (but we don't talk about that). The Carraway's are something of a clan, and we have a really odd tradition that we're descended from Dukes, or lords, or ladies—I forget which, but the actual founder of my line was my great-great-grandfather's brother, who started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today, and I was lucky enough not to be plucked from the line of siblings to run.

I have never seen this great-uncle, but they all say I'm supposed to look like him-with special reference to the rather creepy picture that hangs in father's office, right by the picture of his deceased sister. I graduated from New Haven, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I was supposed to head out to Afghanistan—but they would not take me, on the grounds of my…drinking problems. And so, with nothing to do and little to think of, I restlessly moved back home and spent the majority of those hazy years chasing girls and making a fool of myself. My parents were inclined to disown me, of course, but I discovered my old solace in writing, and soon calmed down considerably. It was still not enough, however, and my father implored me to find a job—or, at least, to make an attempt.

So I decided to go East and learn business, in a rushed attempt to get out of that God-awful environment. Everybody I knew (which amounted to about one cousin, a friend of his, and an old friend of mine) was in business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. My mother wept and sobbed into my new coat in a terrifying fashion, and father agreed, much to his hesitance, to finance me for a year, and after various delays, all initiated by my overbearing mother, I came to New York, permanently—or, at least I thought.

The logical thing to do first was to find someplace to stay, but it was a warm season and I was completely exhausted by my family and my own thoughts, so when a young man I had met briefly before I left my home suggested we move in together, it sounded like a great idea. His name was Mitchell, and he had an interesting background. He originally lived with his aunt and uncle two blocks down from where I had lived, but after his aunt got involved with a local farmer, and started beating the crap out of his uncle, he had to leave home with his uncle and found a new place right in the middle of Chicago. Whilst there, he found out that his aunt wasn't his aunt at all but an older sister, and his uncle was his brother-in-law. And there were other things, too, like a child he had supposedly fathered with an old school friend, but I forget about those details all the time. He told them to me in such hushed tones, I had to lean towards him to hear, and even then I heard almost nothing. But he found the house—or, rather, the flat: a weather-beaten boxy room at one hundred and eighty dollars a month. But at the last minute, he decided he wanted to be a father and went back home. So I was left alone, with the incessant ringing of my mobile, and the frustrated cries of Tom Buchanan wafting through my little box.

My flat was a sight for sore eyes, and I detested its bright yellow walls; they reminded me of that putrid mash my grandmother used to pile on my plate at dinner time. And although I swore I would have the walls painted to a light and airy blue, I never got it done. There were a lot of things that never got done, actually. I never fixed the shelf that hung limply in the kitchen, or the fridge light that flickered on and off again and again. And I never fixed that damn wardrobe door. But there were moments in which I was proud of my squalid little flat—even if I didn't make it clear—and I loved it, in all its random quirks.

Daisy Buchanan's mansion, however, was a far cry from my own flat, and it looked like the set of some incredible movie. Chandeliers hung from the bright white ceilings and the floors—made of fine, shined oak wood, glistened under the heat of New York's sun. The halls and rooms were so large and vast you could have easily lost yourself inside of them—which is why, I think, Daisy had the tendency to either linger in the living room, or by Pammy's side in the nursery, and Tom had the awful habit of wrapping his unusually muscular arm around my shoulders and steering me about. He seemed to have a pretty good idea of where we were going, though, so I never minded too much if I had to visit. The atmosphere was certainly more interesting than my tiny box.

And so it happened, that on one strangely blistery afternoon, I was driven to Daisy and Tom's house and expected to sit and dine at their request. Their house was even more elaborate than all the articles in the world could have described; a large, colossal structure that threatened to beat down any of the other houses around it, with its back lawn stretching for a considerable length, with at least a dozen varieties of flowers and plants decorating its otherwise blank green canvas. The front of the house had a line of French windows, glowing with an almost reflected gold from the sunset and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in his riding clothes was standing on the front porch, waiting almost impatiently for me.

He'd certainly changed since our years together at university. His once thin, but trim frame was replaced by a muscular monstrosity, and his eyes gleamed with the promise that he was happy to see you—a rare gleam, reserved for only a few people that lingered long enough in his life, and I'm still not entirely sure if it was genuine. It's very unlikely.

"Nick Carraway! Long-time no see, buddy."

"Yes, well, you and Daisy never came to visit. And I never left the countryside."

"That so?" He turned to me, a look of confusion in his eyes, before his muscular jaw convulsed and he broke out into a frightening smile. "Well, never mind. You're here now, with us. That's gotta be a whole lot better, don't you think?"

"I guess."

He clapped me on the back as I scaled the steps to meet him, and as he walked, the doors were flung open by two very nervous looking butlers. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the vast white halls, and said: "I've got a nice place here. Don't you think so too, Nick? Lovely and big."

"And absolutely glaring."

I turned to see my cousin, Daisy Buchanan, standing at the bottom of the stairs. She seemed to look at me with a look of certain promise in her eyes—and something about the way she was draping herself across the balcony as she looked at Tom, almost disdainfully, told me she was not happy. And then her eyes roamed restlessly around the room, almost hopelessly, before she gracefully slid from the banister and sashayed over towards me with her neat, prim blonde locks bouncing softly on her shoulders.

Her friend, who had also been standing nearby, followed her with the same impressive walk, and pushed her shoulders back as if she were some sort of model—and it occurred to me, that I must have seen her somewhere. She, unlike Daisy, was uninterested and held her nose up in the air as if she was balancing a ridiculously tiny man on it. They were both dressed in white; Daisy, a white flowing skirt with a white shirt adorned with little flowers, and her friend in white trousers, and a cream-coloured shirt. I must have stood staring for a few moments, as Tom coughed repeatedly and patted me on the back, before swaggering off and into the entertainment room.

"Come on, Nicky." Daisy laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, slipping her arm through mine. And I laughed too, and then came forward into the impressive room.

She laughed again, as if she said something funny, and held my hand for a moment whilst looking up into my face with her big, blue eyes, and I was reminded of the romantic my cousin could be. There was something about the innocence on her face that seemed to suggest she had a darker, unknown secret hidden within; something she wouldn't share and tried hard to forget about, because that was just her way. And then, hinted in a murmur that the surname of the taller, slightly more masculine girl was Baker, and that I should say something, lest I look like a total fool.

Miss Baker's lips, as if on cue, quivered and parted as if she was going to say something rather humorous and she nodded at me almost subtly, before falling onto the sofa in a fashion entirely dramatic, and patted the seat beside her.

I looked back at my cousin who began smiling and laughing in her same playful manner, and I hoped the look seemed to say something along the lines of: "Fuck. Get me out of here," but she didn't quite catch on, and instead pushed me over towards Miss Baker.

"Do they miss me in Chicago, Nicky?" she cried ecstatically, accepting a drink from her husband.

"God, if only you knew!" I laughed, eager to play along. "The whole town is in mourning, Daisy. They're wearing nothing but black; they're wailing, they're crying: 'Daisy! Oh, Daisy! Come back, we need you!'"

"I knew it!" She declared, sipping her drink. "Let's go back Tom. Soon, before they all forget my name. Oh, I haven't been there in such a long time." And then, rather irrelevantly, she added: "You haven't met Pammy yet, have you?"

I had heard of the little girl Daisy so doted on. She was born the week after Daisy's birthday, and my mother told me Daisy had done nothing but weep since that day. I was sure she was suffering from post-natal depression, but my mother told me I was being morbid, as usual, and should shut up before she burned all my papers. So I did, and said nothing more on the matter. I wasn't particularly interested, either. This child was like any other. I didn't get what made her so special—not unless she was born with Tom's rippling arms, or Daisy's ability to dance.

"No, I haven't. I'm sure she's sweet."

She nodded, beaming. "She's gorgeous. She's three. Her hair is brown, and she has green eyes."

"She sounds it."

"Well, either way, you ought to see her, Nick. She's right ups-"

Tom, who had been hovering restlessly and was now onto his second glass of whisky, stopped and rested a heavy hand on my shoulder, "Nick didn't come here to gush over babies and their hair, Daisy."

"Well," hissed Daisy, stretching herself out against the sofa, "he certainly didn't come here to be bored by you and your bullshit, either. Did you, Nicky?"

"Oh please, stop! I can't bear to think of the argument this is going to cause," I quickly replied, absently peeling myself from the chair. "You could wake Pammy."

"He's right, Tom. Now, let's go eat. I'm starving."

At this point Miss Baker said: "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started and almost spilt my drink everywhere. It was the first word she had uttered from the moment I had met her and she seemed almost surprised as I was, for she stretched out her long, athlete's arms and shook herself down, before following Daisy into the dining hall with the same sashaying movement as before.

Once we were sat amongst the vast number of dishes, the butler's began pouring us drinks and serving us up majestic amounts of food. My eyes were bigger than my belly, so of course I made sure I got a healthy helping—of food, and alcohol, but Miss Baker waved away the butler with her cocktails, and glanced at me, before coyly remarking: "I'm in-training."

Our host looked at her incredulously, as did I, and he took down his drink with one large gulp. "You are! What crap. How you ever get anything done is beside me, Jordan."

I looked across at her, wondering exactly what it was she 'got done'. She was a tall, slender woman with a hard face—but it was still beautiful, and her eyes shone brightly, mischievously. And those same grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me, and I politely smiled.

"You live on the outskirts, don't you?" she remarked, throwing back her shoulders. "I know somebody there."

"Really? I don't know a single—"

"You must know Gatsby."

Before I could reply, Tom hastily made a remark that we should start eating, unless we wanted cold potatoes, and Jordan turned away from me with complete disinterest.

We ate the majority of our meal in silence; Daisy would delicately cough every now and again into her tissue, apologise softly, before drinking down a large gulp of wine, and Tom would sit, chewing almost ferociously as he stared at his mobile on the table. Jordan ate like a bored child, twisting the meat on her fork, popping it into her mouth with a flourish, and I ate awkwardly, my eyes flashing from one person to the next, eager to drink in everyone and everything.

That is, until the silence became totally unbearable and on my second glass of wine I announced: "I feel so awkward, Daisy. Can't we talk about crops or something?"

"Awkward!" she cried, "How can you feel awkward, Nicky? Don't you like it here?"

"I—I do, I just feel so…uncivilised. I know absolutely nothing about city-life."

I had not meant anything by my comment, but it was taken up in a rather peculiar way.

"Civilisation won't matter," Tom broke out, almost violently slamming his glass on the table. "The world's gonna end this year, and I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about everything."

"Tom!"

Tom frowned, persisting in his speech. "I've read about it, Daisy. And books—books don't lie, I tell you! We'll all be dead by the end of this year, you'll see. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."

"Tom's very adamant," Daisy sighed, her expression alluding to that of a drooping flower. "He reads a lot of books, with long words, and deep meaning's in them. And so that apparently makes him—"

"They're the goddamn truth!" he hissed, growing red in the face. Miss Baker yawned nearby, stretching languidly, and Tom glared at her, too. "It's all going to end. You'll see."

"We've got to recycle more, and walk instead of using our cars," Daisy whispered with a hint of humour in her voice, her hand crawling across the table to rest on mine.

The shrill, metallic ring of a fifth guest filled our ears, and Tom scrambled almost pathetically to his feet and rushed inside the house, having left his own mobile on the table. And Daisy, as if his absence suddenly freed her, leaned closer to me and warmly admitted she thought everything he said was rubbish, and that I shouldn't listen.

But Tom did not return after five minute, and her warmth faded away to a gentle simmer. She pushed herself away from the table with a look of desperation in her eyes, wiping the top of her forehead delicately with her napkin, and left Jordan and I alone without a word.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short, awkward glance. The corners of her mouth twitched into a gleaming smile, and I grew sickened to realise she was enjoying the moment. Her eyes, previously dulled by boredom, now glowed and fluttered restlessly around the room as if searching for something else. And I was so uncomfortable sat there, that I took solace in my drink, and sighed deeply.

"Something happening?" I inquired, innocently.

She was honestly surprised. "You mean to say you haven't heard? God! Have you been living in a cave all these years, Mr Carraway?"

"Some would say my home was faintly like a cave," I retorted, grinning like an idiot. "So, yes; I'm afraid you'll have to enlighten me."

"Tom's got some woman!"

This was not hard to believe. During our years at university together Tom had been through a total of thirteen relationships, as far as I am aware. He was a notorious ladies man, despite his reputation, and every woman seemed to fall at his feet. At one point I was even enamoured by him—but that was before I found him repulsive.

"You think she'd be smarter, you know? She knows all about Daisy. Why—the whole city knows about Daisy Buchanan!"

And just before I could get my words out, or even make an expression, Daisy came scurrying back in with her hands on her hips and a look on her face that seemed to suggest she was tired, and had had enough of Tom and his shenanigans. But she did not show it, however, and pecked me on the cheek.

"Even if we are cousins, you didn't come to my wedding, or the birth of Pammy. Why—the last time I saw you, you were eleven and—"

I looked inside, carefully. Tom was still on the phone.

"Nicky?"

"I—sorry."

The little frown returned to her pink lips. "We don't know each other very well, do we?" she remarked.

"No, I know. And I'm sorry."

She looked at me absently, before stretching and bringing herself closer. "Listen, Nicky; I have a proposition for you."

I looked at the ground for a moment in silence, wondering if she meant Tom, and absently replied: "Oh, I don't know—"

"Of course you do," confirmed Daisy. "He's a very dear friend of mine, and he needs someone as skilled as you. Oh, Nicky—I've told him all about you. You will do it, won't you? You will work for Mr Gatsby?"

"Gatsby?" I tilted my head to the side, wonder filling my eyes. "What Gatsby?"

"Why, the Gatsby I told you about earlier!" said Jordan, shrugging with carelessness.

"Won't you?"

I looked at the two women. Their faces seemed so expectant, so…desperate. So I downed the rest of my drink, nodded hesitantly, and accepted.

"Wonderful!" Daisy cried, clapping her hands together. She rose from the chair, hurriedly, and scampered off past Tom who had returned from the phone call.

"Where's she off to?"

Jordan gave that same smug glance, and also rose from the table. "To ring Mr Gatsby, of course."

And then, as if I understood the danger I was in, rose too from my chair, and helped Miss Baker to shrug on her coat.

"Gatsby! Nick, you won't work for Gatsby, will you?"

"I have to go," I started, backing away. "Daisy will probably need me to be up early tomorrow."

"Don't do it, Nick. He'll drag you down into hell!"

"How jealous!" called Miss Baker from the stairs. And she slid her slim arm under the crook of mine, smiled, and led us out into the evening.

When I returned home I parked the car on the spot just outside of my flat. The wind had blown off, leaving a cool, relaxing summer's night, and the windows now gleamed silver with the light from the moon. The moving silhouette of a street cat passed nearby, and as I followed it with my eyes, I saw I was not alone.

From the other side of the road, at the colossal house, I could see a man stood in his garden. He was standing with one hand in his pocket, and the other was raised, almost as if it were reaching out for something. At that time I did not realise he was reaching out to the small star I often saw above my window. It would later occur to me that he had actually been watching me for days—and, in a twist of events, had even asked Daisy to get me to work for him.

There was something about him that suggested it was Gatsby. He seemed to regard the pepper sky with sad eyes, and a vacant sort of expression on his face. I decided to call out to him, because Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner and I was sure the formalities weren't to start until later on—but something stopped me, and instead I involuntary turned away, trembling. If only I had known he had seen me and that seeing my face so closely, and so perfectly puzzled in that moment, made him reach out further, with trembling lips and a compulsion to call out my name.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm altering the first chapter, so he lives in West Egg and in the same sort of establishment he lived in in the film/book, with Gatsby next door (hopefully I get all the right bits changed). I've no idea if New York even looks like that anymore; Geography has never been a strong subject!**

**As always, reviews keep me motivated and are warmly appreciated.**

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Tom Buchanan rang me the following day with another proposition. He named it the world's "best offer," and proudly ranted on about it for another ten minutes, before irrelevantly insisting on a day out with his mistress, Myrtle Wilson.

"Myrtle? Who's Myrtle?" I inquired innocently.

From the other side of the line Tom rolled his eyes, swearing under his breath.

"My…._woman, _Nick. The one who rang."

"Oh! That was her? Right. I got it." I paused, my breath blowing down the empty line. "Now why do I need to meet her, again?"

"You just gotta. She's a real stunner!"

I frowned, exasperated. "Alright, _alright_. I'll see you later."

I supposed he'd tanked up a good deal at lunch, with the big company he'd been telling me about, and his determination to have my company was almost insatiable. The supercilious assumption of his was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do, and should therefore spend my time cavorting with him and his mistress, with their rambunctious ways, and total carelessness.

And so he picked me up from outside my house at about quarter-past twelve with his flash Ferrari garishly painted a bright orange, and honked his horn like the annoying prick he was until I stumbled from my house. During the journey he rambled on about bonds, business propositions, and the health insurance a company like his had to offer for a fine young gentleman like me. He seemed to forget himself, too, and that Daisy was his wife, for he made many a remark about young ladies and how he liked it when their dresses went above their knees.

About halfway between West Egg and New York, and somewhere around twenty minutes into our journey, the motor road joins an ash-stricken road and runs along it for a quarter of mile. This is the poverty-stricken part of New York—the place where children are ushered inside by mothers as cars roar past, and where gangsters glare at you if you dare look in their direction long enough. It made me thankful to think that I would never have to live in such squalid conditions; but Tom, on the other hand, acted as if it were invisible. This sheer ignorance of his only furthered my disgust for him.

But above the bleak land and the dust which drift endlessly over it, you are able to see, after a moment of vigorously straining, the eyes of Doctor T. J Eckleburg raised above all; like an almighty God plastered onto a billboard. The eyes are a vibrant blue and gigantic and look out of no face and instead, from a pair of enormous golden-yellow spectacles which pass over a non-existent nose. And some say a desperate business man, many years ago, raised the billboard in an attempt to help promote his small business. But as we passed by and I noted the gleam of eyes, I couldn't help but wonder if there was some deeper, more meaningful background to the eyes. He must have seen a lot during those years, and to this day I am inclined to believe the eyes still stand, presiding over all life in that ash-stricken street.

When we stopped to an abrupt halt by an old, worn gas-station, named "WILSON'S", Tom leapt from the car with an impressive force, and beckoned for me to join him by the shop with just one single glance.

I followed him towards the shop. It was as empty and desolate as the man running it looked, and the shelves were stacked to the high heavens with snacks and adult magazines. It looked so perfectly stocked, that I wondered if this 'Wilson' fellow even made any money. His garage, painted a grotesque yellow, seemed slightly more active with two large men working on an ugly green little Mini, and a greasy-looking man in a vest was busy writing down something on a slip of paper. Tom, however, seemed far more interested in the voluptuous woman with brightly dyed red hair, piled on top of her head in unusual coils.

Tom was about to lean in for a cheeky peck on the cheek, when the proprietor himself, the greasy man who'd been writing on the slip of paper, slid in through the glass door. He wiped his hands on an old brown rag and when he spotted us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his tired blue eyes. He was in his late thirties, possibly nearing his forties, and seemed to hold himself with such little regard it stung.

"Afternoon, Wilson." said Tom, slapping him jovially, but unconvincingly, on the shoulder. "How's business? Looks a little slow."

"I can't complain," answered Wilson, hesitantly peering at Tom's hand. "Business is business; I'm thankful for whatever I get."

"Well, you know…if you _ever _want to come work for me—"

"No thanks. I'd rather starve."

"Nothing wrong with my company," Tom replied, coldly eyeing Wilson. "Absolutely nothing wrong with it. It's fair, and honest."

He turned slightly in my direction, a smug smirk plastering his lips, and his dark brows quivered with humour. "No, no Wilson. It's entirely fair—not at _all _like that Gatsby's corrupt business."

"Must you be so _damn_ rude about my employer? I suppose it's all down to rivalry."

My voice faded off as Tom glanced about impatiently, his eyes lingering on Myrtle's curves for perhaps too long. She was in her thirties and not nearly as glamorous as Daisy, or Jordan. She was stout and somehow carried her curves off well, but there was still an awkward air of stiffness about her as she sashayed towards me. A look of disinterest glinted in her distant eyes as she approached, and she merely regarded me with quivering lips, before waving her wilting husband away with the flick of a wrist.

"He's sick," she said, carelessly. "He has anaemia."

Tom looked equally disinterested, and slid his arms around her full waist. "How unfortunate. Maybe he'll die soon."

"How morbid!" she remarked, tossing her head back with startling laughter.

"Now—Nick. This is Nick." He moved away from her with some reluctance, and patted me jovially on the back. "He's an aspiring writer."

"I work for Gatsby," I corrected, carelessly reminding him.

Suddenly, as if a fiery whim had woken within, Myrtle swung round and peered at me with dubious expectation. Her vibrant green eyes, once dead with nonchalance, brightened to a mischievous gleam and her full red lips quivered with excitement, before she exclaimed: "Gatsby, huh! D'you think you could introduce me? My sister told me all about his party. She said he was handsome, and everyone got gifts."

"That's a terrible idea," Tom objected, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg.

She drooped. "Awful," Myrtle agreed, sounding far from convincing. "An awful idea. I don't know what came over me."

"Oh, well—I don't know about that. I _could—"_

But Tom cut me off with another one of his piercing glares, and together we escorted Mrs Wilson to his garish car. We went up together to New York, without so much as an objection from her clueless husband, and found ourselves lounging on velvet-red sofa's, with copious amounts of wine and the steady flow of music wafting through the warm flat.

She had a dog—a curiously small creature, that cowered every time you came near it—nestled safely in her arms, and every now and again she would pat its head and offer it a small treat. Tom, on the other hand, was restless as usual and stomped about the place with boredom.

"I've invited the McKees to come up," she announced, haughtily tossing her head to the side, "And Catherine, my sister. She's said to be very beautiful by everyone who's met her—and I haven't seen her for a long time."

Tom seemed pleased by this and grinned, flashing his perfectly whitened teeth.

"Catherine's gorgeous. You'd like her, Nick."

"Oh! You're single, Nick?"

Tom answered for me: "Yes, unusually so. Although, we had heard you were engaged?"

This was not true. I had flings with various women, and even a man, but nothing more ever became of those one-night stands, or failed dates. But it seemed Tom had already spoken for me, and I had no choice in the matter.

"Yeah, you'll like her, Nick. She and her husband are very…experimental."

The apartment was on the top floor-a small living-room, a small dining-room, a small bedroom fitted with a large, springy bed, and an ornate en-suite bathroom. The living-room was overly crowded with furniture I was sure wasn't at all necessary, elaborate statues and far too many vases. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph of Myrtle and Tom sitting in some strange position, with what looked to be the London Eye behind them. Several old copies of "Huffington Post" lay on the table together with a copy of "Pride and Prejudice," and some of the small scandal magazines I'd peaked at, but had found to be complete rubbish. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of fine wine from his drinks cabinet, and poured out a number of glasses for the forthcoming guests.

I've been drunk many times in my life; I am an honest man, and not afraid to admit it. So everything that happened that afternoon has a dim, bleak cast over it, and I still struggle to remember all the details to this day. And whilst sitting on Tom's lap, having draped her arms around her neck, Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no more cigarettes or biscuits, and I went out to buy some at the shop a few blocks away. When I reluctantly returned Mrs Wilson had herself chatting wildly with two young, mad women, whilst Tom stood presiding over us all.

The sister, Catherine, threw herself at me with such startling ferocity that I nearly dropped the plastic bags. She was drunk, and kissed my cheek clumsily, groping at my jacket as she cried: "Mr. Carraway! You look absolutely delicious. My sister was just telling me all about you."

"She was?"

"Of course."

She grabbed me by the arm, flung me to the sofa, and perched herself on my bony knee. She was a slender, eclectic woman of about thirty and held herself with a certain air of importance. Her bright red bob accentuated her milky white round face, and her eyebrows had clearly been waxed off and then drawn on again with startling inaccuracy. Pottery bracelets jangled and jingled up and down her bony arms as she waved them about, screeching about some wedding party she'd been to recently, and the huge earrings that dangled from her earlobes shuddered and quivered.

I wondered who the pale, feminine man with striking eyes and the camera was. When I asked her lips trembled for a moment, as if she was about to shout, and she laughed wildly, before gesturing him to come and join us. She introduced him as Mr. McKee and my eyes could not help but fix on the white spot of lather on his cheekbone.

"Nick Carraway?" he asked, snapping a picture of my face.

"Yes."

"McKee," he grinned. His introduction was the most respectable out of everyone in the room, and he soon after informed me that he was in the "artistic game". At this, his wife went into a long, dull rant at how he loved to photograph her—and, once or twice, made the assumption that he should like to have me pose for him.

By this point Myrtle Wilson had changed into a knee-length dress, with a string of pearls around her thin, pale neck. Her arms too jangled but with silver and gold bangles, and she'd spent a considerable time painting her nails with a bright red lacquer.

"I heard an awful rumour," she declared, and the whole room went silent.

"We've probably heard it," Mrs. McKee sighed, "but I'll listen."

Mrs. Wilson rejected the comment with a disdainful glance in the other woman's direction, and wrapped an arm around Tom Buchanan's waist. "I heard Gloria killed her dog in the park last week. Took his collar and wrapped it round his little throat!"

She picked her own dog up and peered around drunkly, as if afraid this Gloria was going to burst in through the door any minute and hack them all to pieces like Patrick Bateman, and Tom rolled his eyes with obvious disbelief.

"Now, I wouldn't be so sure—"

"I _read _about it," Myrtle hissed, clumsily poking Tom square in the chest. "I know what I read, Tom, and what I read was true."

"Oh, I'm _sure _dear."

"Don't make me look like a fool in front of everyone! You're—you're a brute, Tom. A big brute. And you ruined my evening!"

Her voice echoed that of Daisy's, and Tom must have heard it too, for in a surprising twist of events he grabbed Myrtle's dog from her quivering arms and plonked it in its basket.

"Quiet now, Myrtle. You're scaring the dog."

"I don't care!" she drunkenly cried, staggering towards him. "I'm not a timid little thing like your _Daisy-kins, _and I certainly won't stand here and be the pathetic little bitch she is!"

"Don't use her name like that!"

"Daisy the bitch!" she cried, wildly shaking her head about. "I'll say it whenever I want to! Daisy the bitch! Dai-"

And then, making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand and sent her crashing against the velvet sofa. Then there were bloody towels, drunken women scolding Tom and screaming in their high-pitched voices, and Mr. McKee grabbed me by the arm, forcibly dragging me from the room and into the lift.

"Come to lunch one day," he suggested, as we groaned down in the lift. "I'd love to have you sometime."

"Won't Mrs. McKee mind?"

He shook his head and placed an arm around my shoulders.

"Just me and you, buddy."

"Oh."

…The next thing I knew I was sitting in his bed in my underwear, and Mr McKee was beside me wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and holding his open portfolio. I had the strange feeling that we'd done something a little more than just talking about his art, as he frequently turned to me with an odd look in his eyes and a twitch in his mouth.

"New York Bridge…Blind Man…Loneliness…"

Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, staring at my feet with a strange feeling in my stomach, and waiting for the four o'clock train. Sometime later Daisy rang me with a frightening gleam of desperation in her voice.

"Where's Tom?"

I blinked. "Tom? Oh…_Tom. _Yes, he was—well, still is…in his office."

"Did he try and offer you the job again?"

"He did."

She tutted down the line, and somewhere in the background Pammy gurgled and I wondered if she needed to leave, but Daisy absently assured me: "It's alright, Nicky. She's just trying to talk, is all. She hasn't heard your voice before."

"That's true." Then, after a pause: "tell her I said good morning, and that her Nick loves her very much."

"I will."

A train roared past and Daisy had enough sense to keep quiet, until the tapping of my foot could be heard again, and she blew softly into the line.

"Nicky, Gatsby's been asking about you again." There was a dull lull in her voice, and she sounded incredibly bored. "He thinks he saw you again last night, and he saw Tom pick you up this morning. In fact—Gatsby's why I called. He thinks Tom kidnapped you."

"Well…tell him I'm fine, and that I stayed with a friend overnight."

She giggled from the other end, and I heard the jangle of her necklace as she fiddled with it.

"I'll tell him, don't you worry."

"Thanks, Daisy."

"And Nick…?"

"Yes?"

"He's shy. And he sent you an invite to his party."

"Noted."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Gosh, I hope this is okay. Reviews are always welcome!**

* * *

There was loud, wild music from my neighbour's house through the long summer nights. In his brightly lit gardens people came and went like moths, excessively dressed from head-to-toe in all their finery. The week after I had made Mr. McKee's acquaintance I watched as his guests lounged on his beach, one hot afternoon, and frolicked in the water screaming wildly and having the time of their lives. On week-ends his limousine became a sort of bus bearing large parties of wild, overbearing people to and from the city for at least an hour or so, before the people started turning up in their own cars, or by bike, or by foot. And on Monday I spotted unfortunate butler's scrubbing ferociously all day with their mops and their sponges, repairing the ravages of the night before.

Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from New York, along with copious amounts of alcohol—and water, for the health conscious. Rumour had it that Gatsby had a colossal machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed, and another which pumped out wine and other beverages. But I could hardly believe those rumours; they were tossed to me by complete strangers of the night, who would often come knocking drunkenly at my door, asking if I had condoms or breath mints. I never liked those evenings. I wanted nothing more to be curled up on my sofa with a good book, or to have a rather humorous conversation with Tom Buchanan whilst Daisy tutted down the line.

And then, to further disrupt me from my reading, at seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived. The booming, brass sounds linger through the air all-night long, and I found myself fascinated with the melodies as they played each week. Somehow I didn't really mind being disrupted by it all; it was magical, and far more fun than my mundane evenings.

The last swimmers, sunbathers, sand-castle makers will have come in from the beach by then and rush around up-stairs; the cars from all around New York will be parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls gaudy and brightly light with primary colours. The bar is in full swing by that point, with many of the guests clamouring over in an uncivilised fashion. The air is always alive with chatter and laughter, and introductions forgotten on the spot; dancing, singing, swearing, arguing, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names, and never really cared enough to find out. And I was also a part of it.

I am more than aware that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited, thanks to Daisy's call from earlier that week. Other people were not invited-they went there, carelessly spilling their drinks in his halls, or tearing apart his paintings, and tapestries. They all got into limousines, or cars, or buses which bore them out to Long Island, not caring where they ended up or if they ended up anywhere at all, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby's for his rambunctious affairs. Some claimed they knew Gatsby, or had seen him, or had slept with him, and sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all. Most came for the party with simplicity of heart—for the experience, and nothing else.

But, still: I had actually been invited. A chauffeur crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his—no, our, employer: It would be an honour if you could attend my little party tonight. I've seen you many times before—spoken with Daisy about you, too, for I intended to call upon you many times, but rather peculiar circumstances have prevented me from doing so. I feel awfully rude for not having formally introduced myself, and I feel it is only fair that we should get to know one another better before you formally start working for me. I hope you come, Mr. Carraway. And he'd signed it: faithfully yours, Jay Gatsby, in majestic hand.

All dressed up in a sharp suit, I made my way across my lawn to his a short while after seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease amongst people I didn't know, and had very little desire to know. I was immediately struck by a rather beautiful young woman, with her arms wrapped around an equally striking man—whom I had seen before, on the train earlier that morning when I went to pick up some new shirts. And from the moment I had arrived I made it my quest to find my host and to thank him for the kind invitation, but the people I asked simply laughed at me when I asked and declared that they weren't even sure if Gatsby existed at all.

So alone, and a little embarrassed, I decided to get drunk off my head—that is, until Jordan Baker, in her form-fitting dress advanced towards me with frightening intention.

"Hello!" I roared, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "God, I'm glad to see you."

"I thought I'd see you here," she smirked, smoothing down a crease on her dress. "Daisy went on about it all day long. She thought you might not make it."

"That doesn't surprise me; the last time I was invited to a party, I went running from the host and hid for half an hour." She looked at me with a flash of humour, and I continued: "Parties used to scare me."

"How sweet. Well, never mind; I'm here—"

And then she grabbed my hand, as a promise that she'd take care of me in a minute and wasn't ignoring me, and gave a gleaming smile to two twin girls who had approached us with startling quiet.

"Hey!" They did everything in unison; talking, moving—I was even sure, for a terrifying moment, that they were blinking in unison.

"Good evening, ladies."

"Sorry you didn't win."

That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before, and all the magazines were spreading rumours that Jordan Baker had lost her golden touch.

"You might not remember who we are," said one of the girls in yellow, "but we met you here about a month ago. You were wearing an absolutely gorgeous jumpsuit. "

Jordan feigned a smile, the failure of her golf tournament still reeking in the back of her mind, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and were making their way towards the bar. With Jordan's slender arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and strolled about the garden, talking about Pammy, and Tom, and all things she considered dull. Eventually she grew tired and led me towards a brightly lit table. We sat down, were introduced with the usual formalities, and Jordan carelessly flung an arm around the back of a bearded man's chair.

"Do you come to these parties often?" inquired Jordan of the man beside her. She had her eye on him; I could tell, because she had that hungry, determined look in her eyes.

He blinked, quite startled that the superstar athlete Jordan Baker was speaking to him, and absently replied: "I've come once or twice. The last time was a few weeks ago."

"I like to come every week, "said a blonde young lady, who had previously introduced herself as Lucille. "I always have such a good time here, so I make plans to come every weekend."

Jordan nodded with little interest and set her attention back to the bearded man. With Jordan clearly out of the game, Lucille leaned closer to me and slowly sipped on her cocktail.

"I tore my gown on a chair last week. Some actor was vying for my attention, and I caught it." She giggled, her eyes glazing over for a moment, before she returned to life and sipped once more. "Mr. Gatsby asked me my name and address. I thoughthe was going to ask me out—but he didn't, wasn't, and within a week I got a package with a new evening gown in it."

"Did you keep it?" I asked, with mild interest. I wondered if I should tear my tie, to see if Gatsby would do the same for me.

"Of course did! It's gorgeous, and a brand new design—fresh off of the catwalk. I was going to wear it tonight, so I could properly thank him, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered."

"There's something adorable about him," said the other girl, with bright green eyes and black hair, eagerly. "He doesn't want any trouble with anyone."

"Who doesn't?" I inquired, the drink already sending me into a haze.

"Gatsby, you silly little thing. Someone once told me-"

Jordan, having caught wind of our conversation, was now leaning in confidently and peered at me from the other side of the table with a smug look plastered on her face. And if I didn't know any better, I'd say she was trying to set me up with Lucille.

"Somebody told me he killed a man—or two, or three." A curious thrill passed over all of us.

"I don't believe it," argued Lucille sceptically; "I think it's more likely that he was in Afghanistan."

The bearded man, who Jordan had been talking to, nodded as if in conformation.

"I heard that from a man who grew up with him," he assured us, adjusting himself.

"Oh, shut up!" laughed the first girl, "it couldn't be that, because he was in England during that time, working like a sort of James Bond." As our attention quickly switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm, her eyes twinkling. "I'll bet you he's killed lots of people, and that we've all probably laid eyes on him some time or another—we'll just never know, because he's perfectly trained to keep himself hidden."

Jordan stifled a snort and continued swatting away the bearded man's hand. Lucille shivered as the other girl laughed cruelly, and I stilled. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby, as if we were expecting a man in a sharp suit to come crashing through the doors.

There were always two meals served at Gatsby's. The first was just after everyone arrived, and was there for those who wished to party on late into the evening, without stopping. The other was there for the tired ones; it was served after midnight, and only a few scrambled to touch those dishes. We were going to indulge in the first, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan's escort, a persistent undergraduate who obviously believed he was going to get lucky with Jordan, and was prone to almost violent outbursts if any man so much as looked at her.

After a somehow wasteful and painful half-an-hour in which her escort made wild, crude suggestions, Jordan leaned towards me and whispered: "Let's get out of here. I can't stand that man."

"And where will we go?" I asked, frowning into my empty glass. I was tired of wandering.

She pulled me up by the arm, hissed something about finding Gatsby in my ear, before turning to the glaring friends and explaining she absolutely must find the host, because she hadn't met him yet, and he was a friend of a friend and she wanted to meet him. Her escort nodded in a way entirely reluctant, and turned his backs on us with cigarette in mouth.

The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there; instead it was filled with shrieking, giggling women and men who were engaging in drunken displays of affection. She couldn't find him from the top of the steps, nor by the pool, and he certainly wasn't anywhere in the garden. But Jordan was undeterred and as determined as she usually was, and grasped my sweaty hand before pulling me into a large library.

A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles and a huge bushy beard wheeled excitedly around and examined the both of us from head to foot.

"What do you think?" he demanded, startling us both.

"Sorry? About what?"

He waved his hand clumsily toward the book shelves, and the books, and the room.

"About this, that and the other. As a matter of fact you needn't even check; I ascertained. They're all real."

Jordan peered round, humour twitching at her lips, and placed her hands on her hips.

"Do you mean the books, by any chance?" He nodded.

"They are all absolutely real—they have pages, and everything! I thought they'd be made of cardboard."

Jordan and I glanced at each other, quite unsure of what to make of the strange situation, and, supposing it was his drunkenness, shrugged.

"Who brought you?" he demanded. "Or did you just come, like some? I was brought. Most people here were brought."

Jordan looked at him alertly, and something told me she was growing restless again.

"I was brought by a woman," he continued, pushing the great spectacles up the bridge of his nose "I think I met her somewhere last night, at another party. I've been drunk all day and I thought it might sober me up a bit to sit in a library."

"Did it, at all?"

" I think." And then, another pause. "Did I tell you about the books? They're very real. Surprisingly-"

"Have you seen Mr. Gatsby?"

He peered at us incredulously for a moment, frowning, before shaking his head and snapping shut the open book. Jordan sighed, bored of it all already, and leant up against a nearby chair.

"Gatsby? Oh, no. He's not real."

"What do you mean?"

Owl Eyes looked at me for a moment, and drunkenly smiled. "It's all just one big elaborate show."

We shook hands with him, on his request, and Jordan dragged me from the room with startling speed. When we reached the top of the great stairs, and looked down, there was dancing now in the garden. Couples danced wildly around one another; old men pushed young girls drunkenly around in circles, and somewhere below a young man was engaged in a rather serious fight. And by midnight the weirdness of the night had increased. A celebrated, but disgraced, singer had sung in Italian, and a notorious ladies-man lifted girls on his muscular arms and swung them about, and in-between the musical numbers people were doing careless "stunts" all over the garden. The girls in yellow appeared on the stage a short while after and did an impressive act in costume, singing in high-pitched voices, and dancing with the men.

I was still with Jordan Baker. Her sharp face turned to mine, and she looked at me with all the promise in the world that seemed to say she was certain about me, and was enjoying my company. We were sitting at a table with a man and his rowdy girl, who laughed at everything we said. I was actually enjoying myself now—and all thanks to the rather large amount of alcohol I had consumed.

From out of nowhere, a man appeared during a brief moment of silence. He looked at me as if he knew me, as if he'd seen me someplace before, and smiled.

"Your face is familiar," he said, politely.

"It is? Maybe I just have one of those faces."

"I know I've seen you somewhere before."

We talked for a moment about the party, and the atmosphere, before he made mention of his new plane and leaned closer to me.

"Want to go with me, old sport? Just for a short distance."

I was curious and inclined my head. I'd never been in a plane before. "What time?"

"Any time that suits you best." It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name, and why he insisted on taking a complete stranger up in his brand new plane, when Jordan turned round with a smile on her face and plucked the drink from my hand.

"Having a good time now?" she inquired. "You seem to be."

"It's gotten better." I turned again towards my new, unusual acquaintance with a small smile and admitted: "This is unusual for me, to be honest."

He frowned, a moment of concern flickering across his lips.

"How so?"

"I don't usually go to parties. They used to frighten me—and, besides; I haven't even seen the host. I live over there-" I waved my hand in the general direction of my home, "and Mr. Gatsby sent over an invitation. Daisy Buchanan called me days before, to tell me, but I wasn't really expecting it."

For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand, and fiddled with the large ring on his finger. He had actually been doing it the whole time he was talking to me, but I had failed to notice.

"I'm Gatsby," he said suddenly, as if it was the only prompt I would need. "I was the one who invited you."

"You are!" I exclaimed, my eyes widening. I suddenly felt very foolish, and shook my head. "God, I am an oblivious idiot."

"I thought you knew, old sport." He slapped me across the back, much like Tom would; except his was softer, and his face offered me endless opportunities in that one expression. "I'm not a very good host, am I?"

Then he smiled. It was one of those rare, understanding smiles that seemed to offer you the world and was genuine in every way. It was full of bright, beautiful things, and made my chest ache. I was sure it was one of those rare smiles that you will only ever come across four or five times in life, and I attempted a smile of my own, but could only offer him a mere squeak. It was kind and affectionate; understood you as far as you desired to be understood, and seemed to believe in you as you would like to believe in yourself, with all the hope in the world. But then it vanished, and he seemed so unsure of himself—almost as much as I—and shyly looked to the ground, still twisting that ring.

And after the moment when Mr. Gatsby revealed himself to me, a butler hurried toward him with information that Chicago was calling him on the wire, and that it was urgent business. He excused himself with a small bow, including Jordan who had shortly joined my side, and I understood.

"If you ever want anything you just have to ask for it, old sport," he urged me. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some important business matters to see to."

"No worries," I quickly said.

He looked at me, and when he looked at me and urged me to see him at the end of the party, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. He was gorgeous; with that refreshing quality that he cared for you—and it was genuine. And I thought I may have accidentally fallen for him. Just a little.

When he was gone, and I had finished staring gormlessly at him, I turned immediately to Jordan. He was nothing like I imagined, but judging by the look on her face, she had seen him before and was not nearly as shocked as I.

"Who the hell is he?" I demanded. "He's—he's…out of this world!"

"He's just a man named Gatsby," she smirked, coolly.

"Where is he from?" I persisted, frantic. "What does he want with me? Where does he-"

"Now you've been bitten by the Gatsby bug," she grinned. "And if you really must know, Nick, he told me once he was an Oxford man. I suppose that's why those girls thought he was James Bond, or something of the sort."

I started to form a picture of the man inside my head; an American, born and raised in England. He attended Oxford, and then—

"But I think it's absolute crap."

"But—why? Seems logical enough."

"No idea," she insisted, "I just don't think he went there, or that any of it's true."

Something in her tone had the effect of stimulating my curiosity—if it wasn't already stimulated enough—and I peered at the spot where Gatsby had once been standing, my fingers hanging limply by my side. He was an enigma; young men didn't drift coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace. There had to be something more.

Then, another disruption: there was the boom of a bass drum, the voice of the orchestra leader rang out suddenly above the noise in the garden, and Jordan started.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he cried. "At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are going to play for you Mr. Vladimir Tostoff's Jazz History of the World.' "I had little interest in the music now; my eyes fluttered restlessly about the party, searching for Mr Gatsby—until, finally I spotted him, standing alone on the marble steps and looking out and across at all his guests. His expression had a hint of melancholy to it, and I found it strange considering he was surrounded by people, and music, and joy.

His tanned skin accentuated his attractive face and his styled hair looked as though it were trimmed, and meticulously cared for every day. I could hardly see anything sinister about him—not even when the words of the young ladies rang in my ears, or if I even tried ti imagine him as some sort of villain He was different to Tom Buchanan, too. They were like two sides of a coin. I couldn't help but feel stuck in the middle of them; I wanted so badly to help out Tom, being the old friend he was, but the compulsion to be by Gatsby, and to work with him, screamed loudly over all other options.

"Excuse me."

Gatsby's butler was suddenly standing beside us. He was a large, sturdy middle-aged man with a look of seriousness on his face.

"Miss Baker? Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you—alone."

She looked surprised. "With me?" she exclaimed.

"Yes, Madame."

She got up slowly from the table, shakily and deftly grabbing her mobile from the table. After peering at me with a look of morbid fascination, she pecked me on the cheek and followed the butler towards the house. I noticed there was a jauntiness about her movements as she walked towards the colossal house. She seemed confidant, ready—and I was sure any woman would be if they were to be privately called to Gatsby.

It was late—or, rather, early—and I was alone once more. For some time I absently swayed on the balls of my feet in a hazed, drunken fashion. I ignored the pleas from young ladies asking me to dance; I rejected an offer of alcohol from a fat man, and stalked inside.

The large room was full of people and large photographs of Gatsby. I lingered by the wall for a minute or two, m head resting against a photograph of him in London, and idly tapped my ginger against its frame. One of the girls from earlier was playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, red-haired young lady—she was famous, I think. Florence Welch, or something like that. The red-haired woman had decided that everything was unbearably sad and was weeping. After the song was finished she threw herself down into the chair with very little grace, and drifted off to sleep.

"She had a fight with a man who says he's her husband," explained a girl, precariously perched on my chair.

I looked around, blinking. Most of the women were having fights—and even Jordan's party, were arguing. One of the men was talking to Lucile, and before long, the bearded man bent down and hissed with startling ferocity: "You're making me look like a fool!"

Many people were reluctant to go home—mainly the women, and a group of them were stood in the hall, tutting and shaking their heads.

"He's so fucking dull. Every time he sees I'm having fun, he insists we must go home!"

"How selfish!" cried the other.

"We're always the first ones to leave. It's the worst."

"It's unfair."

They left not long after the short argument, drunkenly stumbling with lost dignity. I waited for my coat in the hall for a few minutes, and was about to give up on it, when the door of the library opened and Jordan Baker and Gatsby strolled out together. He was whispering something in her ear, his eyes eventually darting across to settle on me, standing alone in the hall. His manner tightened abruptly and he pulled away from her, sharply pushing back his hair.

"How long were we in there?"

I watched Gatsby out of the corner of my eye; he was staring in our direction, absently thanking guests for their appearance, and I could barely concentrate.

"About an hour."

"It all makes so much sense now," she declared, taking my hands and pressing a piece of paper with her number written on it. "Oh, Nick! If only you knew." Then she paused, before uttering: "But I swore I wouldn't tell, and here I am—tantalizing you."

"Just tell me!"

She laughed, and grabbed the arm of the bearded man as he emerged from the other room. "Oh, but I swore I wouldn't!"

Embarrassed that I had barely even said a word to my host, and employer, I decided to ascend the stairs to where Gatsby was stood. There was certain stiffness about him as he saw me approach, but the closer I came, the wider he smiled.

"I'm sorry. We've barely spoken, Mr. Gatsby."

"No worries," he looked at me eagerly. "Don't give it another thought, old sport." And then he turned closer to me, and said: "Don't forget we're going up in the plane tomorrow morning, at nine o'clock."

And then that damn butler, before I even so much had a chance to speak, tapped Gatsby on the shoulder and announced another urgent call needed to be taken.

"All right, in a minute. I'll be right there. . . "

"Thanks for the party, Mr. Gatsby."

"No worries. Good night." He smiled, and suddenly I felt as if he had desired me to be the last guest all that time. "Good night, old sport. . . . good night."

* * *

Most of the time I worked and had little time to research Gatsby. After our trip up in the plane Gatsby had given me the go-ahead, and I was working for him as a clerk in his office. We never saw each other at work, however, so I sought out other friendships knowing there would be no point in not knowing anyone. I soon knew my office colleagues by their first names, and lunched with them in local cafes, and take-away joints.

I went places with Jordan, which was nice. Everyone seemed to know her thanks to her sports and modelling career, and she got us both into some exclusive places. I lost sight of her for a while, then. She borrowed a friend's car one evening when we went out to a bar, left the top open, and crashed it into a lamppost. She lied to her friend and her agents were angry with her, so I supposed it would be best to stay away while she calmed down.

Tom visited me a few times. He brought baskets filled with beer, and fruit, and sweets and we would sit together and get drunk whilst watching corny comedy movies. Sometimes he would take me out to dinner, or the theatre, and once or twice I stayed with Daisy and Pammy while Tom raved about work.

Daisy called me three weeks after I first met Gatsby. Her voice sounded calmer than usual, and in the background Tom could be heard snoring softly.

"Hello Nicky," she murmured, sighing through the line. "I'm awfully bored, and I miss you. When will you come and see us again?"

"I'll come soon," I promised, kicking a stray piece of crumpled paper into the corner of the room.

"Pammy's missing her favourite Nick."

I laughed. "I'm her only Nick!"

"Nick, that reminds me! Mr. Gatsby rang; he wants to apologise," she broke out surprisingly. "He's just been so busy lately, and—"

"Apologise?"

"Yes. Apologise," she repeated, "for not being present at the office these past weeks. He's just been so tied up lately with business matters and there's barely any time for him to talk to you."

I was feeling unusually bold that lunchtime.

"Give him my number," I implored. "Tell him he can ring me any time he wants."

From the other side of the line Daisy giggled lightly, her bangles jangling on her arms, and I supposed she had pressed her hand to her mouth like she usually did when laughing. And then the silence wrapped itself around us like a snowy white blanket, before Daisy eventually spoke.

"Oh dear. You've been bitten by the Gatsby bug!" She sighed. "Well, I can't say I blame you. He is dashingly handsome."

"Gatsby—bug? Daisy! Stop that. Now you and Jordan have said that, and I don't have a clue what it's all about."

Daisy laughed again, harshly and sharply. "It's really quite simple, but Nicky, dear, I'm tired and I simply don't have the energy to explain."

And with that, Daisy Buchanan hung up and I was left in the silence of my home for just one hour. When the phone next rang I supposed in a hurry she had called up Gatsby, recalling the fact I'd given her my permission to give him my number. I was nervous when I answered, and picked up the phone with a shaky hand.

"…Hello?" I said after a little while.

"It's you, Old Sport. Good." He paused. "I was worried I had the wrong number for a while. Daisy's always liked to trick me."

I laughed. She always liked to trick me, too, when we were much younger. Her favourite trick involved telling people that so-and-so fancied them. She'd always get a good laugh out of that—and why I struggled to believe her when she told me absolutely anything about Jay Gatsby.

"Mr. Gatsby, I'd like to thank you for the job."

"Oh—yes, the job. I'd forgotten about that. How's it going?"

"Really great," I replied, trying to sound as sincere as I could. "The people I work with are great, and there's never a dull day in the office."

"I'm glad, old sport—glad you're not finding it too much." For a second time he paused, and I imagined he was twisting his ring in that usual fashion of his when he was overcome with crippling anxiety. And then, eventually: "I have another party this weekend, like always. I'd like you to come."

"I'll come, of course."

"And you'll have a good time, yes?"

I smiled to myself. "I had a very good time the first time I went. It should be a blast, now I'm not too shy and met some people."

"Then…" he drew a shaky breath, as if he wanted to say something else, "…do come, old sport. We can talk some more."

"I'd like that."

Awkward silence.

"Mr. Gatsby—"

"Jay, please."

"…Jay, are you alright?"

"Fine, just…fine. See you then, old sport."

I lingered a while longer, listening to his breathing. There was something else I ached to say, and my lips quivered, but I closed them once more and nodded as if he could see.

"Goodbye."


	4. Chapter 4

In the years that followed Gatsby and I grew considerably closer. I supposed, after the two wonderful years we had spent together, that if I were a woman and morals were looser, Jay would have proposed. We would spend our evenings lounging under sprawling stars; our limbs entangled in a heavenly embrace, with only our drunken haze sedating us from the shrill, metallic cry of the phone. Betsy, our maid, would spend the best of her day begging, pleading with us to answer the line. Yet however much she implored Jay turned his back, and would continue to speak to me in hushed tones.

If anyone in the household had begun to suspect that Jay and I were in a romantic relationship, they did not make it known. We had heard whispers from the cook, laughter from the chauffer (who Gatsby swiftly sent away, after pressing a hundred dollar bill in his hand) and excited, girlish cries of glee from a maid. I also regret that I did not listen to these rumours and instead left it to Jay to deal with them, for a swiftly as it all seemed to hush, I had no idea of the trouble that was to come. That shrill, urgency of the phone when it rings, even today, is the embodiment of my disgust for Tom Buchannan. I had never known a man to be so careless.

And on the fifth day, Betsy came to us in tears. She wrung her soaking handkerchief with her tiny, neat hands and wailed long into the hours. Neither Jay nor I could console her; she only wept furiously, throwing herself to the floor, and declaring: "I love you Mr Gatsby, and Mr Carraway—buh-buh...you shoulda taken the call! It's all goin' to the dawgs, Mr Gatsby!"

He turned to me with a look of confusion that matched mine, twisted the ring once, then twice, before kneeling beside poor Betsy, and offering her a fresh handkerchief—straight from his own pocket. She took it in her nimble fingers, pressed down hard on her red nose, and wept some more before Gatsby could take it no longer, and pulled the sobbing woman into his chest. In the history of masters I am, more than certain, that Gatsby was the kindest, and most honourable of all. He could never have hurt a servant, or even so much as turned a blind eye to them; he acknowledged them, cared for them, thanked them. If one ever did any wrong he would punish them justly, but never cruelly. And as I looked on at the scene unfolding before my very own eyes, I felt a pang of compassion for Betsy, who had, unlike any of the other servants, consistently tried to push us together. There was something motherly about the way she seemed to think, and Gatsby obviously, after having lost his own, preferred her company above all. If I looked close enough, I could see the irises of his eyes widen and glisten in despair; tears lined his eyes, ready to fall, and he rested a strong hand on her head, making gentle stroking movements as he tried to calm her down,

Eventually Betsy had calmed down enough for us to understand what she's been crying about. We led her over to the large armchair, which resided near the bookcase with all our old, leather-bound books, ' and Gatsby held her hand while I fetched her a refreshing glass of lemonade. He seemed to speak softly, slowly, and it was as if time itself had slowed to a standstill. Betsy had obviously told him whatever was troubling her, and was even more vocal than before, proclaiming she was a terrible maid, and that Gatsby should have never left the safety of his study for his job.

* * *

**A/N: It is with great sadness that I have decided to quit fanfiction writing. I may return later on at some point, but you must know it will be under a new profile, and I will make no reference as to who I am. So this is, essentially, goodbye.**

**You may be wondering why I leave you with this half-baked chapter; the reason of this is, quite simply, because the anon harassing me on Tumblr found my account and sent me various vile messages. They were homophobic, rude and belittling. As you can imagine, I've received 'negative' reviews over the years, and yes, I have been sort of able to deal with them, but this is insane. I've been put off and can't enjoy writing anymore. I will not attempt to write anymore for a while. Regardless of what happened, the correct steps were taken to alert the site and this person was banned. **

**I hope you understand why I am quitting, and thank you all who supported me. Times are tough, and I can't simply do this anymore. **

**Much love and kind regards, **

** Ziggy. **


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